


A Kitchen Emergency

by fictorium



Category: Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-31
Updated: 2010-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-14 07:16:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictorium/pseuds/fictorium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for<a href="http://mxrolkr.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://mxrolkr.livejournal.com/"><b>mxrolkr</b></a> for the <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/dvlwears_prada/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://community.livejournal.com/dvlwears_prada/"><b>dvlwears_prada</b></a> <strong>Secret Santa Exchange</strong>.  She requested a happy ending with perhaps a twist of the twins thrown in.  Thanks to <a href="http://ladyvivien.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://ladyvivien.livejournal.com/"><b>ladyvivien</b></a>  for the quickie beta :)</p><p>Andy doesn't leave in Paris, and when she's getting home on a rare early night, Miranda calls to summon her once more.  Now, just what can Miranda possibly want with her?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kitchen Emergency

Andy had just unlocked her front door when the telltale peal of the world’s most aggravating ringtone shattered the quiet of the hallway.

 _Dammit_.

She’d almost scored a Thursday night in her own apartment, something that was about as rare as a solar eclipse. In that moment, she regretted her decision to apologize in Paris, to climb down from the high horse of her own principles and stick out the job that a million girls would kill for. This might well be the job that killed her, Andy realized with a grimace.

“Yes, Miranda?” It was a Herculean effort to sound chipper and capable, especially after seeing on the phone’s display that eight p.m. had already been and gone.

“Come to my house. Now.”

Of course, Miranda hung up right away. Which was just as well, because it meant she hadn’t heard the world-weary sigh that had come all the way from Andy’s toes. With a mournful glance at her barely familiar apartment, Andy turned on her heel and marched back out into the Manhattan evening. Though it was chilly for December, the brisk walk to the subway warmed her considerably. It almost made up for the pinching around her toes and the numbness of her legs where her skirt and stockings weren’t enough protection from the elements.

Forty-five minutes later, Andy stood in Miranda’s once immaculate space-age kitchen, hands on her hips as she veered between confusion and dismay. The first, overwhelming fact that she noticed was that there was flour everywhere. Every surface was whiter than Miranda’s snowy hair, and there was a powerful scent of burnt sugar that left Andy close to gagging. It looked like a hurricane had taken out a Home Ec class, and in the center of the chaos stood Miranda, frowning at a food mixer as though it had just trash-talked Coco Chanel.

“I didn’t realize you lived in Siberia, Andréa. That’s the only reason I can think of for how long you took to get here.”

Brooklyn might as well be Siberia as far as Miranda was concerned, so Andy didn’t bother to offer an explanation.

“Did you need me to go buy some uh, cakes?”

Miranda’s glare could have frozen time, and Andy found herself shrinking away from it out of habit. She backed up into the kitchen doorway, trying to maintain her composure as Miranda wiped absent-mindedly at something sticky on her own cheek.

“No, I need you to find out what is wrong with this damned recipe and fix it. It can’t be that hard to cook a simple snack, for God’s sake!”

Which left Andy with no shortage of questions, not least of which being where in all the chaos Miranda might have placed a recipe book. No, before addressing that problem she still had to wrap her head around the sight of Miranda in her kitchen, Miranda attempting to bake, and just the reality of working for Miranda in general. Andy was beginning to worry that she had in fact suffered some forgotten head trauma before accepting this job.

Biting back thoughts about the bubble bath and trashy television shows that she’d had planned for a rare quiet night in, Andy rolled up the sleeves of her Donna Karan blouse. Miranda must have been distracted by the mess, her only reaction to the rough treatment of silk being a flicker of annoyance across her striking face.

“Cookies aren’t hard, Miranda. If I’m smelling the right thing under the burning, you were going for gingerbread?” Keep it light, Andy told herself. It wasn’t so much that she was mocking Miranda, more that she was trying to contain the situation into some kind of harmless joke that Miranda had decided to play a few days before Christmas.

“Ginger something, yes. Martha said they were her finest creation. I should have known better than to trust someone with such a bizarre affection for pastel colors.”

Okay, Miranda had just invoked the patron saint of holiday baking as though normal people contacted a billionaire acquaintance every time they wanted a little kitchen advice. Andy concentrated on breathing for a moment, and tried not to think how her mother would react at the casual name-dropping that had just occurred.

“Why, um, why are you baking at all? Wouldn’t it be easier to just buy some cakes?”

Damn.

Andy had just broken cardinal rule number one of unwritten _Runway_ policy: you never ask Miranda anything. Emily would beat Andy to death with a Louis Vuitton purse for even attempting it.

“Because my daughters asked me to, Andréa. Apparently their dear friend Tyler has a lovely, _helpful_ mommy who explained that real families have home-cooked food.”

The implications of that staggered Andy just a little; to be honest, she’d have expected Miranda to put a hit out on Tyler’s mommy before being shamed by her limited definition of motherhood.

“So why not make something you’ve made before? New recipes are just asking for trouble.”

Andy knew the perils of experimentation only too well: living with a chef had its disadvantages to accompany the steady stream of weekend breakfasts in bed. Nate had almost burnt their kitchen down twice already, and the number of ruined dishes she’d had to politely smile her way through while he ranted about spice combinations numbered higher than she dared count. And Nate did this for a living; with a rank amateur the carnage only got worse.

“That would imply there’s something I’ve actually cooked for them before.”

“You’re telling me you’ve never cooked? In your _life_?”

“That’s what I said,” Miranda snapped, a peevish look already in evidence on her face. Andy bit her tongue for a moment, fearful of tipping Miranda into a full blown sulk. This was their first real conversation outside of work, and Andy was determined not to be the one to blow it.

“Not even for your husbands? I’m sure I remember Stephen saying something about missing your home-cooked meals. Uh, that is—“

The reference to Stephen hadn’t gone over well, Andy could see Miranda’s perfect posture tense until she seems to be almost vibrating.

“Stephen is an idiot, who wouldn’t know home-cooked food if it walked up and bit him. No, in that area I confess: I faked it. Not the only time in our fiasco of a marriage.”

Miranda’s lips quirked in what couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than a smile. Andy found herself returning the gesture before she could help it. It seemed one of the walls had crumbled slightly back in Paris. Maybe even Miranda Priestly couldn’t brazen her way past the memory of her crying in a bathrobe. Just as Andy was starting to enjoy the fuzzy, unfamiliar feeling of being in Miranda’s confidence, Miranda snapped her back to reality.

“Now, are you going to do something about this recipe, Andréa? Or must I do everything myself?”

Andy sighed, having deduced already that she had to get Miranda far away from the disaster zone. Summoning up all the afternoons spent in the kitchen with her mother, Andy began sorting through what looked like the contents of an entire grocery store laid out on the kitchen counter. Calling Nate was an obvious impulse, but they’d barely spoken since he moved to Boston. So much for seeing if they could make things work, she scoffed silently.

“Will the girls accept Snickerdoodles? Nobody can screw up Snickerdoodles.”

There was a thump from somewhere outside the kitchen, followed by a smothered giggle. Andy looked up, startled, and saw the dismay on Miranda’s face. Having to ask for help was one thing, but actually failing in the eyes of her daughters was unacceptable.

“Come in here, you two.”

Andy offered a silent prayer that her boldness wouldn’t get her killed; or worse, fired. Two redheads came shuffling into the kitchen, deceptively angelic in their soft cotton pajamas and slippers. They gave their mother warm smiles, but reserved cooler stares for Andy.

“What are you doing here?”

Thinking on her feet had kept her employed (and wearing fabulous shoes) so far, and so Andy went with it.

“Well, your mom told me that she’d be baking tonight. I uh, I begged her to teach me some stuff.”

Miranda’s jaw had dropped as Andy began spinning the lie, but her eyebrows still arched reflexively at the mention of ‘stuff’.

“And as you guys can see, I screwed up the first batch pretty bad. So I’m going to try again now, with your Mom supervising. It’s a bit late, or you could help. Maybe next time?”

Caroline, who was distinguishable by her slightly greener eyes and the greater number of freckles on her nose, pouted instantly.

“But Mooooooom…”

Still at a loss, Miranda was slow to answer. Her characteristic sharpness was completely absent as she spoke to her children, Andy noted with a discreet smile. It was like watching a different person entirely.

“Andréa is right girls, you must get back to bed. There will be cookies in the morning, Mommy promises.”

Pressing a kiss on top of each of their heads, Miranda gently ushered the girls back towards the kitchen door. She hesitated for a moment, and Andy assumed the other woman would go to tuck her children back into bed, but Miranda seemed content to dispatch them both with a quick hug. All too soon, Andy’s helpful distractions were stomping their way upstairs.

“Snickerdoodles,” Miranda said, making the word an accusation and a question at the same time. Andy sighed as she pulled a clean mixing bowl towards her. Forcing a bright smile onto her face, the same smile she’d been offering Miranda every time an impossible task had been thrown her way.

“Watch and learn, Miranda. Watch and learn.”

For once, Miranda hadn’t interfered, or scared Andy into nervous failure. No, Andy had taken charge of the kitchen quite effectively while Miranda sat in the den just outside, flicking impatiently through The Book.

Once the cookies were in the pre-heated oven, its temperature reduced from the nuclear settings of Miranda’s ill-fated attempt, Miranda disappeared to clean herself up a little. By the time she returned, in clean clothes and with her hair brushed back from her face, Andy had cleared the worst of the kitchen debris.

“They’ll be ready soon. Just have to be careful not to overcook them or the softness in the middle is ruined.”

Miranda looked about as interested in the softness of Snickerdoodles as she might be in nuclear fission. It was simply not something she had the time to care about, as Andy knew only too well.

Warm baking smells filled the room, the sweet cinnamon scents almost enough to banish what the extractor fan hadn’t. In a few more minutes, nobody need ever know that the burning of innocent gingerbread had ever happened. Andy felt relief at her looming victory as Miranda stared imperiously at the oven door.

“Thank you,” Miranda whispered, almost too quiet to be heard over the faint whirr of the oven, but Andy caught it. Only the second time in almost a year that Miranda had thanked her for anything, so no way was Andy going to let it slip away without acknowledgment.

“You’re welcome,” Andy offered in return. “I like baking. I couldn’t really get near the kitchen when Nate lived with me, so I’ve missed it.”

Miranda quirked an eyebrow at that information, apparently Andy had concealed her relationship woes a little too well on her return from Europe. Knowing Miranda’s impatience for small talk or the mundane details of her employees’ lives, Andy opted not to elaborate further.

“Okay, so, just take them out when the timer beeps. Leave them on the rack to cool and they’ll be ready for the girls in the morning. I’d better get going.”

The news of Andy’s imminent departure didn’t go over well with Miranda, who closed The Book quite forcefully.

“I don’t recall saying you were done, Andréa.”

Andy froze halfway in picking up her bag from the kitchen counter (Marc Jacobs, hobo, petrol blue was she’d cataloged and identified it on the floor of her closet that morning). The coolness of the color reminded her of Miranda’s eyes, Andy realized with quiet dismay, and she didn’t want to speculate if that was why she’d basically snatched it out of Nigel’s hands when he first liberated it from the Closet.

“Uh, did you want me to make something else?”

When had she become Miranda’s personal pastry chef, Andy wondered? Hell, she’d take that job full-time because it had to pay more than Elias-Clarke’s lousy valuation of what an assistant should earn. Miranda tapped her foot impatiently against the Italian marble of her kitchen floor.

“Did you think I’d feed my children just anything? You’ll have to taste them first, make sure they’re fit for human consumption. I can’t be sure that you can tell the difference between yeast and rat poison, after all.”

Andy _really_ had to bite her tongue at that. Casting aspersions on her skills was almost okay in the office, where Andy accepted that she would always have more to learn about the fashion and publishing worlds. But here, when she’d been helping as a favor, not to mention saving face in front of the beloved twin monsters, this was how Miranda showed her appreciation?

“You know what? Screw you.” Miranda didn’t react; deadly silence echoed in response. “Taste the cookies yourself. I’m going home, where I should have been enjoying an evening to myself for once. If you don’t like it, you can buy some damn cookies.”

Gathering up her bag and blazer, Andy was fully prepared to march out into the night. As a parting shot she offered, “And there’s no damn yeast in Snickerdoodles.”

She didn’t make it any further than the kitchen doorway before Miranda, with her lightning-fast reflexes and always disturbing stealth, had grabbed Andy by the arm.

“Wait,” Miranda said. Andy could see her boss struggle with something before speaking again.

“What I meant was, won’t you stay and enjoy what you’ve made? There’s coffee.”

By which point Andy felt a strong need to pinch herself, to make sure she hadn’t fallen into some kind of cinnamon-scented dream. Had Miranda actually said something almost _nice_ to her? In fact, didn’t that actually amount to a social invitation? Flustered, Andy felt her composure slip just a little. She’d often wondered what it would be like to spend more time with Miranda than just for work commitments. She’d denied it as much as she could to herself, but the thoughts kept cropping up. Andy blamed it on loneliness since Nate left, on the fact that Miranda so effortlessly took up all of Andy’s time, so of course Andy had a craving for more than whispered demands and sighs of disappointment.

“Okay?” It was all Andy dared say, for fear of giving away more than she could afford to. It really wouldn’t be cool to suddenly seem desperate for Miranda’s company.

The oven timer sounded, prompting Andy into action. She put her belongings back where she’d just lifted them from and moved to retrieve the already infamous Snickerdoodles. To her complete amazement, Miranda stepped over towards the impressive coffee maker in the opposite corner and with a few clicks and whirrs there was a fresh pot brewing. Distracted at the sight, Andy almost removed the baking tray with her bare hands, but recovered in time to grab an oven glove.

It didn’t take long for the coffee to be served up, and Andy felt weirdly self-conscious as she perched on one of the stools at the kitchen island. Miranda poured generous mugs full of piping hot coffee, and Andy fidgeted with the plate she’d transferred a few cookies onto. She sipped her coffee black, with no sugar, something Miranda noted with a discreet nod. Apparently that was up to standard, though Miranda added a splash of coffee and some brown sugar to her own cup. Still, fashion was frequently hypocritical, and Andy was more than used to double standards by now.

Not wanting to appear greedy, she hesitated before taking a Snickerdoodle from the plate. Miranda’s laser glare tracked the snack all the way to Andy’s mouth, and it was really difficult not to choke, Andy realized, when trying to remember how to chew. Thankfully the cookies tasted pretty good, and though Andy wasn’t about to give up the back-breaking day job, she’d definitely done her mother’s teaching proud.

Andy managed to eat the whole thing without swallowing wrong or any other embarrassments, and she was about to reach for a second cookie when she noticed that Miranda had made no move towards the plate herself.

Oh, hell no.

Pushing the plate towards her boss, Andy busied herself with sipping at the frankly amazing coffee. Better than Starbucks she reckoned, even if that was probably heresy.

Still Miranda acted as though the cookies didn’t exist.

Taking one of the smaller cookies (Andy had never quite got the hang of measuring out equal blobs), she offered it directly to Miranda, who turned her nose up at the very idea.

“Oh, you’re gonna try it Miranda. If I have to feed it to you myself, you will try one of these damn cookies.”

There was a flash of… something across Miranda’s face that Andy didn’t quite recognize. She thought she knew all of the facial expressions by now, but that one had been somewhere between intrigue and embarrassment. Did Miranda actually enjoy when Andy got assertive? Maybe the idea of a challenge from one of her minions amused Miranda, but Andy couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

With a small sigh, Miranda grabbed a different Snickerdoodle from the plate. Apparently she drew the line at taking anything directly from an assistant’s hand. She sniffed warily as the snack neared her mouth, and with no particular grace, she took the smallest bite she could manage. Andy discovered she was holding her breath, as if Miranda’s judgment on Andy’s amateur baking skills was somehow important.

But Miranda couldn’t hide the surprised smile that appeared on her lips, dotted with a few stray crumbs on top of her flawless lipstick. Andy forced herself to look away, because really, staring at Miranda’s mouth seemed a lot like asking for trouble.

“Not bad,” Miranda confessed as she reached for her coffee mug. Andy relaxed at the compliment, able to eat the cookie in her hand with impunity. She regretted taking a bite as Miranda continued talking though, as the unexpected words almost caused Andy to choke.

“That was very kind, what you did with the girls.”

Andy nodded in acknowledgment, trying to clear her airway as quietly as possible. Luckily a quick slug of coffee did the trick, because Andy wasn’t at all confident that Miranda would risk damaging her exquisite white blouse to Heimlich her choking assistant.

“How is it, Andréa, that in a city and a job that turns everyone into harder people, you’ve retained that wide-eyed _niceness_?”

Of course, Miranda said ‘niceness’ in a way that made it sound a lot like cattle-rustling, or murdering strangers, but Andy took what she could get. She felt her cheeks heat up a little as she stammered her way to an answer.

“I uh, well, I suppose I have changed; but only as much as I wanted to. That’s why I stayed, in Paris. It was a choice, not to lose who I was. I knew I could choose to keep the good changes, but I didn’t have to become anyone else.”

Didn’t have to become _you_ was the unspoken addition. Miranda had never asked why Andy had stormed off towards a fountain for a few wasted minutes that day, but she’d been just a little less abrasive for a while after that, even on their return to New York. They’d never discussed it, because for once Miranda was the one who couldn’t ask questions, and Andy didn’t much feel like explaining herself.

“I see,” Miranda said quietly. She finished her cookie without further comment, but still seemed happy for Andy to sit in her kitchen like they did this every night.

And then it happened.

Perhaps because Andy stood up too quickly, or because Miranda jumped in response, but all of a sudden they were both standing, and much closer together than normal. Miranda stared at her assistant with a certain curiosity, as if seeing her for the first time. Andy hardly dared breathe, and yet she made no move to step away. She was rewarded with Miranda’s fingers reaching out to gently caress Andy’s face, and her eyes fluttered closed at the contact.

Miranda’s hand wasn’t trembling as she placed it on Andy’s cheek, because if nothing else that Priestly sense of confidence could always be relied upon. She was perhaps a fraction hesitant when she first kissed Andy, but by that point Andy would overlook just about anything. Using her own hands to draw Miranda closer, Andy risked placing one firmly on Miranda’s pretty damn perfect ass.

Which, Andy came to realize, was apparently some kind of signal to step things up a notch or five. Nothing tentative in their kisses then, tasting of cinnamon and rich coffee as their tongues met earnestly. Andy found herself being guided towards the hallway, and with only a brief pause to check for disobedient twins, she was being led into what appeared to be a guest bedroom on the second floor.

It had been inevitable, she concluded, as Miranda’s nimble fingers began undoing the few buttons of Andy’s blouse. They’d been dancing around this since Miranda’s divorce papers, perhaps for even longer. Andy tried not to think too much, intent on enjoying every second, and it was easy to get lost in the sensations of kissing and touching and just being there with Miranda.

 _Miranda_ for God’s sake.

Andy couldn’t help but grin as she thought of how Emily’s head might actually explode if she ever found out about this. Then she stopped thinking of anyone but Miranda, because it was kind of impossible to think at all beyond _damn, she’s good with her hands_.

Some time later, as she struggled to draw a breath and felt her muscles burning in the most pleasant way, Andy couldn’t keep the smile off her face. She knew two things for certain, now: that Miranda tasted better than anything _anyone_ might conjure up in the kitchen, and apparently Andy herself was a screamer, if only given the inspiration. Thank God for handily-located pillows, she thought as she trailed lazy kisses over Miranda’s shoulder.

“I really did just want help with baking, you know.” Miranda offered the first complete sentence that didn’t invoke any deities, well, the first for quite some time anyway.

“You know me, Miranda. I always like to overachieve.”

Miranda turned back towards the woman who had just become her lover, an unmistakable smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“That much I have discovered, yes. I may never recover, Andréa.”

There was pure melodrama in Miranda’s voice. Andy resisted the urge to hit her with a pillow. It would be rude, when Miranda looked so damn sexy lying next to her.

“Not even for round two?”

Miranda feigned disinterest for a grand total of two seconds, before pulling Andy into a very enthusiastic kiss.

“Well, if you put it like that. Got to work off those cookie calories somehow.”

Andy laughed. If she had her way, they’d need to eat the whole damn lot of Snickerdoodles just to keep their stamina up. After all, Miranda expected nothing less than the very best.


End file.
